


Mating Patterns of the Wild Mustang

by Tierfal



Series: Documented Human Behavior [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Colonel Mustang gives a practical demonstration, and everyone gets a bit more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mating Patterns of the Wild Mustang

**Author's Note:**

> For [Pandaaaaaaaaaa](paranoid-panda.tumblr.com/), who asked for lighthearted Roy/Ed featuring Al. ♥
> 
> I hope you had the happiest of birthdays, my lovely!! ♥

Al intends to be an _unstoppable_ stud when he gets his body back, but he’s currently losing good years of physical experience.  Scientifically speaking, the best strategy for determining the parameters of studliness would be active experimentation, but in lieu of that option, Al has decided on close observation of a suitable specimen.

Thus it is that he and Ed are sitting at a table in a pub called “The Stag’s Points” (for the record, not the kind of rack Al’s interested in—oh, goodness, that’s saucier than their famous chili chips), where Al is pretending to be taking notes on a book about the Stone rather than watching Roy Mustang work the room. Meanwhile, Ed is pretending to be writing a report instead of doing the exact same thing, and the colonel is cozying up to a very pretty redhead at the bar.

Al props his steel chin on his free hand, twirls his pen, and then jots down _body language_.

The colonel is leaning back against the bar with his elbows on the counter behind him.  His torso and his hips are tilted towards the lovely young lady who has captured his interest.  His feet are spread apart, his head is angled just slightly, and his smile is broad and easy.

Al writes the word _confidence_ and underlines it twice.  The beautiful redhead is demonstrating the same reaction as the pretty brunette before her—that is, a fascination so absolute it verges on worship.  Women drink up confidence even faster than those strange little martini-things they like to swill a lot and smile over.

Al would go so far as to theorize that confidence alone is what makes Roy Mustang an eligible bachelor, a gossip column fixture, and a ‘heartthrob’ (columnist terminology is worth studying when one has endless empty nighttimes at one’s leather fingertips)—and a lack of it is what leaves Jean Havoc stranded in the dreaded realm of the _pity date_.  After all, Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Havoc are both tall, handsome, distinguished military officers with a variety of special talents and a tendency to leave a trail of smoke.  Admittedly, the colonel’s rank is more prestigious, his State Alchemist position adds glamor, and he has the war hero thing going for him for good measure—but Havoc is significantly taller, and he’s _blond_.  Al can’t think of much of anything better than being tall and blond, so, really, that should all even out.

Confidence, then.  Confidence is the key.  Confidence is what has prompted a very pretty woman to toss her red hair over her shoulder and rummage through her handbag for a pen and a bit of paper; confidence is what has driven her to apply the former to the latter and then offer it to Colonel Mustang with a shy little blush and a sweet little smile.

Ed, when Al glances over, seems to have accidentally actually become absorbed in the report—which is what usually happens when you put information in front of Ed’s face—and doesn’t notice Colonel Mustang sauntering back over to their table with the newly-acquired paper in hand.

“That’s two,” says the colonel, which makes Al wonder exactly what Mustang and his brother discussed while Al himself was delayed outside making sure the lost-looking kitty made it home.

“Some of us are trying to work,” Ed says, which makes Al wonder exactly when Ed decided that outlandish lies are permissible in conversation.

“It must be a very chilly day in hell,” the colonel says, laying the slip of paper atop the latest page of the report.

Ed startles slightly at the intrusion, processes it, frowns down at it, and then proceeds to frown up at Mustang. “Totally fake.”

Colonel Mustang plants a hand on the table, arching his back elegantly as he leans down, and turns his head slowly to look across the room at the redhead. She, of course, is looking back—she gives another cute flush and then a flirtatious wave. Mustang winks at her.

“Decoy telephone numbers,” the colonel says to Ed, “are usually _too_ random. People seem to think they have to generate a sequence without any repeating digits—which, as I’m sure I don’t have to explain to _you_ , is highly improbable in actual permutations. So.” Smoothly he draws out the chair next to Ed’s and settles in it. He stretches his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankle, and then folds his arms across his chest. Al writes, _suave/casual vs. lazy??_ , because the line seems very fine indeed. “Who’s next?” the colonel asks. “One more, and I win.”

“Brother,” Al says, partly just to stop Ed from grinding his teeth; Ed _knows_ it’s bad for his molars, “do I even want to know what the game is?”

“It’s a new one,” Ed says darkly. “It’s called ‘The Colonel Is a Cocky Bastard’. He said he was bored because none of the chicks in here was a challenge, and he could get a phone number from anybody in the whole place, and I called bullshit. So we made a deal.”

Somehow it just figures that this masterly display of human courtship behavior was motivated by one of Edward Elric’s impulse bets.

Colonel Mustang’s grin has a bit of an edge to it. “The deal was that Edward picks out three people. I have five minutes from the moment of each selection to collect a telephone number. If I fail to obtain all three, Fullmetal doesn’t have to write a report for a month. If I succeed, he has to fulfill one request of my choosing—no conditions permitted, no questions asked.”

Ed drums his gloved metal fingers on the tabletop and scowls. “I still think you’re cheating.”

“I don’t believe in cheating,” Colonel Mustang says calmly. “I believe in changing the rules.”

Ed pauses, and then he breaks into a wicked grin. “Good idea, Colonel,” he says. “I just picked your third target.”

Mustang raises an eyebrow, meeting Ed’s reckless grin with a well-practiced smirk. “Do tell.”

Ed sits back in his chair and looks insufferably smug. “Me.”

Colonel Mustang appears to be faintly surprised—which is a nigh-on record-setting quantity of emotion appearing on his face at a time like this. “You… don’t even have a telephone.”

“We do so,” Ed says. “Sergeant Fuery installed it just the other day.”

Mustang’s eyebrows lower in an interesting way, and then the left one arches. “How considerate of him not to mention a new point of contact to your shared C.O.”

Ed shrugs. “Well, we blackmai—”

“ _Convinced_ ,” Al says loudly. “We convinced him not to say anything until we’d… gotten used to it.”

“And made a couple prank calls to your office,” Ed says.

Al sometimes wonders what the weather is like in the little world where Ed lives.

“Anyway,” Brother is saying, “four and a half minutes left, Colonel. Impress me.”

Colonel Mustang pauses, works his jaw, and then smiles… grimly?

“Alphonse,” he says, “I trust that you will bear witness to the fact that he brought this upon himself?”

Al is fairly certain he doesn’t like the sound of that, but, in all honesty, Ed deserves whatever he’s about to get. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,” Colonel Mustang says serenely.

Ed is practically squirming with delight as he consults his pocketwatch.  “You’re burning through your time, Colonel—pun _intended_.”

The colonel’s face shifts subtly from delicate calm to languid amusement, and he leans in and spreads his hand over the report before Ed can retreat.

“Fullmetal,” he says, “look at me.”

Ed goes very, very still.  Colonel Mustang moves in a little closer—and a little closer still—and Ed’s an animal in his own snare now, eyes wide and flitting, the corners of his mouth turned down—and Colonel Mustang lifts one graceful hand to tuck a lock of hair behind Ed’s ear and ducks down to murmur into it—

Al has gained an extraordinary aptitude for using the angles and the planes of the steel plates to channel sound towards whatever part of his soul it is that processes auditory input.  Momentarily, he regrets it.

“I need the number,” Colonel Mustang says to Al’s big, dumb, susceptible brother, whose cheeks are staining pink.  “The number, in fact, is the _only_ thing I need.  I have the knowledge, and the will, and the inclination—I have everything it takes to teach you everything you want to know.  There are so _many_ things I could teach you, Edward—so many silent, satisfying, forbidden things.  So many secrets.  So many tricks.  So many warm… tight… little… plac—”

“Who the fuck you callin’ so small he’d be a lousy lay?” Ed demands, flailing back, his face the approximate color of an overripe tomato.

Colonel Mustang laughs, low and rich.  “On the contrary,” he says, “your size—and your _flexibility_ —would make you a magnificent lover with enough practice and instructi—”

“Holy fuck!” Ed says, clapping his hands over his ears (and then pausing to wince and massage at the right one).

“Delightfully naïve,” Mustang says, catching Ed’s left wrist gently, “as usual.”

“I’m a lot of shit,” Ed says, “but the last thing I am is fuckin’ naïve, and you kno—”

“I meant naïve in _terms_ of fucking,” Mustang says.

Ed’s mouth falls open.  It remains open for fifteen uninterrupted seconds, and then he snaps it shut.

“But you wouldn’t be for long,” Mustang says silkily.  “I’d lay you out on the finest sheets money can buy and trace every inch of you with my fingertips; I’d tease nerve endings you didn’t even know you had.  And when you were panting and straining and begging for release, I’d find a few more hidden pleasures with my tongue.”

“Shut up,” Ed says faintly.

Colonel Mustang turns Ed’s captured wrist and knits their fingers together, and then he raises his free hand and drags a fingertip along Ed’s jaw. His eyes gleam.

“Would you rather dispense with speaking?” he asks. “There are much more persuasive ways to communicate.”

“I’d rather you quit talkin’ circles around me, you bastard,” Ed manages. Mustang’s fingertip trails down the side of his neck, and he flinches away from the touch. “And keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself; I don’t want _your_ fingers near my jugular.”

“You don’t mean that,” Mustang says softly, “because deep down, you know for a _fact_ that I would never hurt you.”

Ed swallows.

Mustang leans in until their noses almost brush. “That’s why you have to let me in, Ed,” he whispers. “You could be vulnerable with me in ways you can’t _imagine_ with anyone else, and you and I both know I wouldn’t take advantage. You’d be safe with me—safe, and sated, and so warm it would make your skin tingle; so warm you’d wake up smiling; so warm you’d roll over to look at me, and the moment I saw how contented and effortlessly sensual you were, I’d have no _choice_ but to take you all over again—”

“Colonel,” Ed says in a tiny voice.

“So careful,” Mustang says. “I’ll be _so_ careful, because you’re so _precious_ —I don’t think you have the slightest idea how beautiful you are.”

“Colonel,” Ed says, and the syllables quaver, “shut your goddamn mouth.”

“Not just yet,” Mustang says, and kisses him—with _tongue_.

Al drops his pen.

Ed makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh into his tonsil-tangling session.

Al picks up his book and drops that, too.

Ed fists his automail hand in Mustang’s hair and, by the looks of things, resorts to cannibalism as concerns the colonel’s lower lip.

Al looks around for other things to drop loudly, but he can’t quite bring himself to risk spilling Ed’s beer on a library book, and other than that their table is pretty bare.

At last, just when Al is fairly sure that the sheer force of his embarrassment is going to make the steel of his helmet go pink everywhere, Ed and the colonel draw apart, and Ed starts gasping for air.

“I’ll also teach you how to breathe through your nose during a kiss,” the colonel says with a slow smirk.  “It’s a very practical skill.”

“Fuck you,” Ed says, cheeks bright, breath—well, _short_.  “You’re still not getting that number.”

“No?” the colonel asks with an astonishing _rumble_ in his voice.  “Pity.  I was going to call late tonight when you’re tired and cold and lonely and tell you moment by moment what I’d do if I had you in my arms and my bed, and if you pleaded, I’d drive over to meet you and prove i—”

“I told you I’m not fuckin’ naïve,” Ed says again, doggedly, raising his chin.  “I know better than to believe in pretty fucking promises—especially when they come from _you_.”

“Edward,” Mustang murmurs, gaze locked into his, “ _I_ know better than to treat you like a toy, and I wou—”

“Think again,” Ed says.  “I’ve been your toy fucking _soldier_ since day one, but I’m not gonna play the game this time.”

“I’m not playing,” Mustang says softly, and Al’s not yet an expert on the nuances of the colonel’s poker face, but if he had to guess, this really seems… sincere.

Al looks down at Ed’s pocketwatch and sees that there are twenty seconds remaining of Colonel Mustang’s allotted time.  He looks up at Ed, whose whole body is trembling like his skeleton is made of piano wire, and the colonel’s fingertips against his collarbone are stroking at the keys.

Al thinks _That could be a sonata that would save them both._   Al thinks, _If Colonel Mustang courts_ Brother _, I’ll get to observe an expert’s whole process in great detail._ Al thinks, _If Brother doesn’t write a report for a month, we’re not going to get any closer to the Stone, and if touching Roy Mustang is what Brother really wants, he should be able to do it with two hands._

Al tears off a corner of the top page of his notepad, writes down the number for their new telephone, and reaches across the table to slide it into the worryingly small space between Ed and the colonel.

“You win, sir,” he says.

Colonel Mustang smiles, catches up the scrap, deftly undoes a few buttons at the top of his uniform, and tucks the paper into his breast pocket.

“ _Al_ ,” Brother cries, “you _traitor_! Now he can make me do anything he damn well wants!” He cups a hand to the side of his mouth and hisses, “Have you forgotten that he’s evil, and we hate him?”

“Obviously _you_ have,” Al says, trying very hard not to feel guilty. Ed walked into this—vaulted into it, really; cartwheeled blithely; cannonballed. And surely, deep down, buried and dormant under layers of cynicism and craftiness, Colonel Mustang is too magnanimous to ask anything… unreasonable.

Al has a sudden premonition of Ed washing Colonel Mustang’s car while wearing only his leather pants. Al promptly attempts to scour this image from the part of his soul that simulates a mind’s eye, because _no one_ should have to think about their big brother that way.

“Now, now,” the colonel says. “I’ve already decided what you’re going to do.”

Ed gulps.

“You’re going to wear a dark green tie,” Colonel Mustang says.

Ed blinks.

“You can’t mean that,” Al says, wheedling like his life depends on it. “Brother couldn’t very well walk into Central Command in only a tie; that would be _scandalous_ , and your whole team’s credibility would be compromised. And I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for several reasons.”

It’s the colonel’s turn to blink repeatedly. “I didn’t—Alphonse, not _just_ a tie. That—you—” He clears his throat and turns to Ed. “You’re going to wear a green tie,” he says deliberately, “and whichever _other_ articles of clothing you deem appropriate, when you go to dinner with me this Saturday.”

“Oh,” Ed says.

“Thank goodness,” Al says.

The colonel settles one arm on the table and one hand on Ed’s knee, and before Al can suggest that maybe they should have an adult chaperone for this ‘dinner’, Mustang smiles like a kitty who’s figured out how to climb the birdhouse.  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” the colonel says to Brother.  “Is there any kind of food that you _don’t_ enjoy inhaling at hazardous speeds?”

Ed’s expression of profound confusion answers that question.

“Cretan it is,” Colonel Mustang says.

“What’d you call me?” Ed asks.

“Not ‘ _cretin_ ’,” Mustang says.  He pauses.  “…for once.”

Clearly, Colonel Mustang is a die-hard romantic.

Ed turns to Al, frowning.  “Do I have a green tie?”

“You have a grand total of three outfits,” Al says, “counting the one you’re wearing.”

“Is that a ‘no’?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, that’s a ‘no’; or yes, I have a green tie?”

Al wishes he could scowl back; fortunately Ed tends to intuit these things.  “Brother, you don’t have _any_ ties.”

Ed chews on his lip.  Colonel Mustang watches this process very closely.  “I bet we could make one.”

“I suppose,” Al says.  “We _have_ patched that coat up a thousand times, so fabric alchemy is fairly easy now.  But we’d need a pretty good base material, and we’ll have to be careful not to make that mistake again with the forty-six-degree angle, where people were saying that you smelled like sulfur for days—remember?”

Ed grimaces.  “I’d’ve forgotten if I could.” He rakes a hand through his bangs, glances down at where the colonel’s fingertips are rubbing at his right kneecap, and goes pink. “Crap. I’m never gonna live any of this shit down. I need another goddamn drink.”

Mustang’s grin is almost blindingly bright. “A half-pint?”

Ed growls in the back of his throat, Mustang licks his lips, and Ed’s breath catches sharply.

“I’ll go get you one,” Al says, pushing his chair back. “And… maybe… talk to the bartender… for a while. Do you think he likes cats?”

“Prob’ly,” Ed says, transfixed by the colonel’s slow-smoldering gaze.

Al collects his notes and makes a run for it, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder for fear of scarring his soul-eyes for all eternity. When he gets his body back, he fully intends to wreak vengeance the likes of which no older brother in the world has ever imagined.

In the meantime, he’s thinking silk for the tie—but will sage-green or emerald complement Ed’s eyes better?

Eventually, Al decides it doesn’t matter, since the colonel makes them light up anyway.


End file.
